


The Wages of Sin

by Veul_McLannon



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Horror, Psychological Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 20:40:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19280773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veul_McLannon/pseuds/Veul_McLannon
Summary: During the latter end of the 19th Century, Aziraphale becomes the protector, as a good Guardian ought, of the love that dare not speak its name.





	The Wages of Sin

“Sometimes,” the soft, round man dressed in soft, expensive fabrics purred, “When a man has made such a foul and tangled mess of his life that...” He chuckled in a way which did not inspire confidence in his sense of humour, “Death seems... the only option, why- an angel appears.”

He circled in front of his target, blue eyes like flint, mouth curved in a gentle smile. The man on the ground (let us call him Charles) whimpered, scrabbling ineffectually at the cobbles – desperate to get away, but somehow unable to avert his eyes from the vision before him.

The man in the soft cream coat bent towards him, still smiling, his eyes crinkling at the edges.

Charles felt a chill scrape down his spine, the beginnings of panic blossoming into something more tangible, his eyes widening behind his spectacles. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. His mouth was open, yes, but no matter how he tried, nothing came forth. His throat was closing up with fear.

“I should like you to think of me... as that angel,” the other was continuing. It was still dark in the narrow street where their paths had crossed, still so early in the wee hours of the morning that no light should yet have cracked its pale fingers at the winter sky. But withal-

There was a strange glow in the air. Nothing one could pinpoint, no source as such, but every time Charles thought the place had stilled, a flash in his peripheral vision would draw his eyes to- nothing. Every time he turned to look – only darkness awaited. It crept into his eyes, taking root in the veins and nerves, seeping into his very being. It clawed at the dark cavity which in other men might have held a heart.

Suddenly he could breathe again, gulping in great lungfuls of grim, fetid London air.

The man in front of him was regarding him indulgently, the smile unmoving, hands tucked neatly behind his back.

And with the gift of breath, Charles’ mind clicked back into its habitual gear, the well-oiled cogs began to turn; surely this gentle, polite man couldn’t be all that dangerous. Why, he wasn’t even armed!

“Anything!” he choked desperately, his voice cracking most effectively across three octaves. “I’ll do anything, I- I’ll never- never touch another soul, I’ll never blackma-”

“You are lying, Charles.”

The silence became oppressive, weighing down on him like blanket of granite rock.

The horror curled indolently below his diaphragm coalesced into an empty stillness. He couldn’t look away. He couldn’t look away.

The sparking lights taunting him at the edges of his vision went out in an instant; the night became perceptibly darker. He could barely see his erstwhile tormentor in the omnipresent dark.

Half a minute of silence went by, then another. Had he been granted a reprieve?

Slowly, tentatively, he uncoiled muscle after muscle, preparing to scramble away from the scene at the slightest provocation.

That had been a narrow escape. As long as his clients never found out, he-

“ _Then shrivel like a leaf, and let the wind sweep thee away._ ”

... and he screamed and screamed and screamed.

***

Aziraphale stepped from the dark Soho alley into the weak gaslight, dusting his hands together idly, delicately examining his fingernails. He paused for the briefest of seconds under the lamp, glancing up the empty street, and further up to the empty sky.

He smiled, a small smile, barely even a smile at all.

Then he walked home.

Behind him was only silence.

**Author's Note:**

> The opening speech is not mine, but the work of our very own Sir Terry, from the book Going Postal (for real go and read it if you haven’t! There’s a TV film too, which is. Objectively the best thing to grace a screen possibly ever.) The final line in italics is paraphrased from Isaiah 64:6.  
> I can’t recall a character I have loathed quite as much as Conan Doyle’s Charles Augustus Milverton, so I like the idea of him getting his come-uppance; a nice little tool to set vengeful Aziraphale on.
> 
> Thank you for reading! I’d like to maybe expand on this one someday... I adore comments if you liked it <3


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